The Green Light of Twisted Fates
by hikarisaan
Summary: Nick Carraway and Jay Gatsby find themselves closer than what they had expected. With his dream far out of his grasp now, Gatsby learns to appreciate the things that are right before him. Maybe it's their fate. So what is it that makes it all be, does dream twist fate, or fate twist dream? (co-written by Umbra Crystal & hikarisaan)


I couldn't sleep all night; a fog-horn was groaning incessantly on the Sound, and I tossed half-sick between grotesque reality and savage, frightening dreams. Toward dawn I heard a taxi go up Gatsby's drive, and immediately I jumped out of bed and began to dress-I felt that I had something to tell him, something to warn him about, and morning would be too late.

I flung my front door open. I was in a hurry. I didn't know exactly why at the time, but I somehow knew that my worries were not unfounded. I passed through the gate of the fabulous Gatsby mansion. And there he was. Gatsby himself, bent over his yellow Rolls Royce he was so proud of, now the bumper dented, trace of blood smeared over the yellow metal-which he was trying to erase. I felt a sort of relief pass through me, seeing him all in one piece.

"You ought to go away," I said, coming closer to him, "It's pretty certain they'll trace your car."

"Go away now, old sport?"

He didn't even once look at me-maybe because he was expecting me to visit or because he was still thinking of her.

But he wouldn't listen to me. He refused to let go of that futile fragment of hope that Daisy would call; and I wasn't able to save him.

"Will you stay for breakfast, old sport?"

I looked at him, but his eyes were stuck on the horizon where the big bright star we humans so much adore yet ignore had just emerged, shedding light to the bland and tired reality. It was a new day, and it was the sun, this new day, that Gatsby was pleading to favor him again. Or at least, that's how I interpreted his aloofness as he voiced out the request.

"Sure I will," I replied, "Sure I will."

He told the sour-faced butler to bring something light and then he turned to me and suggested we eat outside.

"Such a sunny morning, old sport. We shouldn't be staying cooped up inside now."

The nervousness was still detectable, no matter how calm his face seemed.

"I guess not."

"Do you think Daisy's sleeping at the moment? She was up until five…"

I really couldn't say anything. Only that Daisy was not exactly a 'morning flower.' She bloomed better in the evening, when she could have her servants pamper her petals, when she could remain as pale as ever, only growing with the moonlight. What fragile flower as she, would ever be content with common, boring sunlight? Truthfully, a special little daisy, wasn't she.

"She'll call first thing when she wakes up," he mumbled, still staring at the house across the bay. The green light was slowly fading away as the sky got brighter and bluer. It hurt to look at the sparkly sea.

I nodded silently and sipped at the coffee that I was given. Despite my persistent attempt to reduce the flow of time, the minutes ticked by like seconds. Soon, breakfast was over, and I knew that I had to leave in time so as not to miss my train.

"I'm going now."

"Hm…"

"Hey." I patted his shoulder to capture his attention, "I'm going now. Will you be alright?"

"Don't worry about me old sport. I'm not going to drift to sleep. And if I will, I assure you I will jolt awake at the first ring."

Even then, he misinterpreted my concern. I made sure to smile, for the firmness of his faith was as always unparalleled to anything that usually empowered me.

"I see."

He smiled back with reassurance and offered to escort me halfway. There was silence as we walked. I glanced at my wrist watch when we reached the porch-nine o'clock. The gardener, the last one of Gatsby's former servants, and also the one that had served us breakfast I noted, came to the foot of the steps.

"I'm going to drain the pool today, Mr. Gatsby. Leaves' ll start falling pretty soon and then there's always trouble with the pipes."

"Don't do it today," Gatsby answered. He turned to me apologetically. "You know, old sport, I've never used that pool all summer?"

I looked at my watch again. "Twelve minutes to my train."

I didn't want to go to the city. I wasn't worth a decent stroke of work but it was more than that-I didn't want to leave Gatsby.

"I'll call you up," I said finally.

"Do, old sport."

"I'll call you about noon."

We walked slowly down the steps.

"I suppose Daisy'll call too." He looked at me anxiously as if hoping I'd corroborate this.

"I suppose so."

"Well-goodbye."

We shook hands and I started away. Just before I reached the hedge I remembered something and turned around. But shouting this across the lawn would not do; I had to say it face-to-face.

"They're a rotten crowd," I told him as we awkwardly re-shook hands. "You're worth the whole damn bunch put together."

It was the only compliment I had ever given him all this time we knew each other, because I disapproved of him from beginning to end. First he nodded politely, and then his face broke into that radiant and understanding smile, as if we'd been in ecstatic cahoots on that fact all the time. His gorgeous pink rag of a suit made a bright spot of color against the white steps and I thought of the night when I first came to his ancestral home three months before. The lawn and drive had been crowded with the faces of those who guessed at his corruption-and he had stood on those steps, concealing his incorruptible dream, as he waved them goodbye.

Once again, feeling a little bit less burdened, I prepared to go down the steps.

"Sorry for making you wait," I said to the cab driver as I took my seat in the back.

He just nodded making it clear to me that he was displeased with my tardiness.

And then I spotted it- the crow of death. He staggered unrhythmically, a stick of a man barely standing in one place. There was no sense in his way of walking, nor any in his exhausted red eyes underneath the mess of sweaty, greasy bangs. The tattered muddy clothes, if not his behaviour, should have given me a second solid warning. But I was overwhelmed by disbelief. It couldn't be, could it? Was that a real gun in his hand? The shadow figure wandered in front of the gate, myself unable to take any action. The mysterious frame. I had seen it before, hadn't I? I had met him before. I could see him slowly approaching the estate from the rear-view mirror. It couldn't be, could it? Gatsby.

"Excuse me for a moment," I aimed at the driver.

It felt as if time had elapsed, unconscious of any of my actions, before I found myself back at Gatsby's pool.

"What's the matter, old sport?"

He was looking alarmed. He knew that something was going on. He had heard something, or seen it, or rather felt it. My mind had barely started processing Gatsby in swim trunks, water dripping from his hair. How much time had passed since I saw it? Was it too late? I caught myself wondering if the creature I had seen at the gate was just a fragment of my imagination.

"Gatsby, at the gate… there's," I managed to utter through my jumbled reason.

I steadied my palms on my knees, trying to catch my breath. I had only taken a few steps, yet it felt as if I had run a marathon without training.

"What are you talking about old sport?" he said.

He came up to me, placing a hand on my back,leaning down to see if I was okay. I quickly straightened myself up, grabbing him by the shoulders.

"You ought to go away now!" I screamed in his face.

"Go away now? Old sport, I told you, Daisy-"

And that's all he managed to say. The last thing I heard him say was her name.

A loud bang echoed through Gatsby's yard, causing the crows that had gathered around the pool to flee in scare. And then nothing. I felt my knees hitting the hard concrete underneath us. All I could see was Gatsby's expression of pure shock. All I could feel was his hand pressing on my right shoulder. All I could hear was this insensately ringing. His mouth was moving but I couldn't hear a word of what he was saying. I let my head fall forward on Gatsby's shoulder, my eyelids fluttering shut. I felt my body being pressed against Gatsby's chest, raised up, off my knees. No, I did not want to leave yet.

And then a blank.

When I woke up, I was in a moving car. I knew the smell of that car. I knew the feeling of blasting through the city in that car. I knew exactly what kind of car this was. I looked to my side. Gatsby. His face was too serious, focused on swerving between cars on the highway, going as fast as possible. He swept his eyes with his handkerchief. The cloth was wet. Had he took it with him in the pool? No. It wasn't that. He had cried. My attention got caught by my right shoulder. My arm felt sore and heavy. I couldn't move it. I looked down at my arm. A beautiful fabric was wrapped around my arm. It was one of Gatsby's silk shirts, now red instead of the pure white it was before.

"Your shirt…" I muttered.

Gatsby's head snapped to the side. His eyes full of worry. They really were full of worry. For me?

"Nick!" he gasped, "are you okay?"

Hi eyes didn't leave me for a second, waiting for my response.

"The road," I said.

Gatsby's eyes snapped back to the road ahead of us, his hands steady on the steering wheel.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"You tell me, old sport."

"Midwest," I answered.

I wanted to leave New York. I had to. This rotten place. These rotten people. Everything and everyone crumbled down behind me, as the yellow car was speeding straight out of the city. I looked at the man beside me. He wasn't one of them, one of those rotten people. They were a rotten crowd. Gatsby was worth the whole damn bunch put together. I was always glad I said to him. It was true. It was true then. It was true now. It would be true in a hundred years.


End file.
